


Flesh Of My Soul

by FoxNonny



Series: Child, the Darkness Will Rise [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, and it shows up a little more than I anticipated, because I love my quizzy and the people he loves a lot, flights of fancy with the canon, originally I said mentions of mahanon and his love squad but alas my fingers have betrayed us all, spoilers for literally everything, wolf family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-06-04 15:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6664669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxNonny/pseuds/FoxNonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris and Hawke search for an old companion for answers as Fenris's powers begin to change into something he can neither recognize nor control. Inquisitor Lavellan starts to quietly investigate a member of his inner circle on the advice of his spymaster. Solas questions whether he made the right choice as the physical distance between him and his heir grows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the next instalment in my Wolf Family series. For the full experience, I'd suggest reading from the beginning, if you haven't already, since this piece builds on stuff in the last three stories. If you really really don't want to do that, then the important thing to know is this: Fenris and Solas are related and no one can tell me otherwise. Titles for everything in this series come from the song Mordred's Lullaby by Heather Dale and likely will continue to do so until I run out of lyrics.

_The Wolf hunts._

_Silver-blue pelt flashing in an ever-changing Fade, all it knows is hunger. To hunt, to kill. Bloodlust on a spiritual level, the primal urge of waking hours manifested in a being reduced to base instinct. A need for power, a need..._

_Some spirits flee as it bounds through the dreams and nightmares of the incorporeal. Some watch with interest, intrigue, amusement. Others think... perhaps they might challenge it. It is still very young, after all._

_The Wolf leaps from one vision to another, and there in its path stands a demon, corrupted from a brief foray into the world of the living. A demon of Despair._

_It eyes the Wolf a moment, and shifts, changing the vision with it. Now Despair stands in a muddy yard under an overcast sky, a tombstone at its feet, lyrium-lined hands muddy with grave dirt._

_Despair looks at the Wolf with a cruel grin on a face that looks carved from marble, something steadfast and unearthly in its deep green eyes._

_"Seventy-eight years, fifty of them with me," Despair says. "In time, I'll forget what his face looked like. Eventually I'll forget his name-"_

_The Wolf snarls, and lunges, pinning the demon under its enormous paws. The demon was not expecting the Wolf's strength, and has no chance to scream before the Wolf's jaws snap shut on its throat, and tears it to shreds._

-

Fenris sits up with a sharp gasp.

For a moment he does not know where he is, or _what_  he is, teeth bared and fingers curved into claws in the wool blanket pooling around his waist. Then he blinks, and he breathes. Sweat cools on his forehead, and some part of him is relieved to know that he still sweats like any other man. 

His heart races in his chest, his breaths heaving, and- _fasta vass,_  he's shaking. _What is this?_

"Fenris?"

He glances down, and sees Hawke gazing up at him with a frown cast over his honey eyes, heavy with sleep, still.

" _Seventy-eight years, fifty with me, and eventually I'll forget his name..._ "

Fenris closes his eyes with a wince, and feels Hawke's hand on his arm. It heals and it hurts, all at once. 

"A dream, nothing more," Fenris says quietly, putting his hand over Hawke's, needing that comfort even as the uncertain future cuts him to the bone. "Sorry to wake you."

"You never have to apologize for that," Hawke says, pushing himself up to sit beside Fenris, leaning over and kissing his bare shoulder. "What kind of dream?"

_The kind I've been having since the Warden's fortress in the Plains. The kind I fear might not be a dream at all._

"An unpleasant one," Fenris says, leaning into Hawke. 

Hawke wraps his arms around Fenris's shoulders and pulls him close, his body warm and solid against him, an anchor. _But all too temporary._

"It must be the Veil here," Hawke murmurs, sounding troubled. "It feels... distorted, a little. Thin. Bound to make for troubled dreams."

Fenris is afraid to ask, but far too curious not to. "Was it so when we first arrived? Before we settled down for the night?"

"I didn't think so," Hawke says. "I'll admit I wasn't exactly checking. But no place in Thedas is safe from Corypheus's corruption."

Fenris turns his face into Hawke's shoulder, trying to keep his expression neutral. _They are dreams. Only dreams._

"Love..." Hawke says, stroking Fenris's hair. "I know- I know there must be reasons, for why you haven't told me what happened. What Solas told you. But you seem... troubled. These dreams wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that, would they?"

Fenris bites back a sharp response, grimacing. _I don't know what I can tell you. I don't know what is safe for you to know. I don't know if you'll believe me. I don't know if I believe any of it myself._

"After we speak to the witch, I will know if the dreams are related or not," Fenris says. "Until then... _venhedis,_  I do not know. I truly do not know enough about any of this to tell you what is happening with any confidence. I am sorry."

"It's alright," Hawke says, and while there is comfort there still, and love, there is slight distance as well, and it stings to hear it. "As long as you know that I'm here."

"I know," Fenris whispers. _For now._

Hawke maneuvers them back down under the blankets, and they lie like that a while, close in each other's arms but a world apart in their own thoughts.

Then Hawke chuckles, a little, and Fenris lifts his head. "What?"

"Nothing, really," Hawke says, shaking his head. "I just never thought I'd see the day. You, actively seeking Merrill's counsel."

Fenris scowls. "You might take it as a sign that we are truly living in a dark time."

"I do," Hawke says, though he's smiling. "We'll find her, love. The world is only so large."

_And getting smaller by the day,_  Fenris thinks, but does not say. Instead, he kisses Hawke, suppressing the urge to put all his heart and all the time left to them in that kiss, to press his lips to Hawke's mouth so he might memorize the touch, the feel, the taste. To wrap himself up in Hawke and never let go, spend the years in a quiet place far beyond the reach of the world, both the good and the evil. 

" _I ask you to think on the possibilities of a newer world. A great many things might be different._ "

With a scowl, Fenris shuts Solas's words out of his thoughts, and presses closer to Hawke, lying awake and still in the darkness long after Hawke has slipped back into sleep. 

-

Lavellan stares at the papers scattered across his desk, symbols and numbers blurring into one another, his head pounding. Not for the first time, he thinks longingly of the forest, the quiet simplicity of the hunt, of Keeper Deshanna's teachings. He'd always been fascinated by the human world, staring wide-eyed with wonder the times they'd ventured by villages and cities to trade at the markets. Now, he'd be more than happy if he never had to be involved in another human affair again.

_You're just tired,_ he scolds, forcing himself to concentrate.

It's true - he's been tired for over a year, nearly two, ever since the damned mark wound up imbedded in his hand.

There's the sound of a door being quietly shut at the bottom of the stairs, and a soft footfall. Lavellan's ears flick at the sound, and he tenses, taking a small crystal paperweight off his desk to serve as a focus. _Just in case._

Leliana appears at the top of the staircase, and Lavellan sighs in relief, putting the weight aside. "Many might consider knocking, you know. I might have been engaged, or- or napping."

"You never nap past four, and both Bull and Dorian are elsewhere," Leliana replies, her eyes dancing. "I did not wish to waste your time by knocking."

Lavellan flushes at the mention of his lovers, but covers as best he can with a nod. "I- well I suppose that's fair. Is everything alright?"

Leliana stands at attention, her amusement put aside as she becomes the Inquisition's spymaster in a single change of posture. "A matter has come to my attention that... well, truthfully I know not what to make of it. But I feel you should know about it."

Lavellan frowns, pushing his papers aside. "What is it?"

"Last week, as you know, we received a letter from the Warden fortress in Orlais regarding the incident with the Champion's partner," Leliana says, folding her arms. "You skimmed it - very basic, they were happy to host Solas while he helped Fenris, all was well, paired with a slight hint that recompense might be in order."

"We sent- ah, we sent something their way, did we not?" Lavellan says, resisting the urge to rub his aching temples. 

"An official thanks from the Inquisition, as well as samples from some of our rarer stocks - not very much, but enough that Josie feels their pride should be sated," Leliana says. "That isn't the issue."

Lavellan frowns. "Oh?"

"One of my contacts spoke with a stableboy at the fortress," Leliana says, quietly. "Gold changed hands, and suddenly the story sounded _very_  different from that pleasant missive the Orlesians sent us. More troublingly, it was different from the report that Solas turned in, as well."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I," Leliana says, drumming her fingers on her arm. "According to the report my informant gave me, the Champion's lover was near-dead when Solas arrived."

"That was what Solas said as well."

"To hear my informant tell it was quite different from a casual exaggeration. The healers were convinced that he could not be saved, that his very mind and body were damaged beyond repair. Solas is many things, but he is not a trained healer, as far as I know. If I knew he could work such miracles, I would have demanded he work with our surgeons to bring many of our own soldiers back from the mouth of death."

Lavellan raises his brows. "So the problem is that Solas is... too skilled?"

Leliana shakes her head. "Apparently when Fenris was healed, there was a great disturbance in the Fade. All the mages of the fortress felt it."

"Solas is trained in Fade magic."

"This was something else. More troublingly, Fenris was apparently... changed, by the healing."

Lavellan blinks. "Changed how?"

"That part of the report was unclear. I wouldn't trouble you with any of this, Inquisitor, except that the stableboy's account ended with the Champion and Fenris taking their leave in the middle of the night. No one has seen them since. And now, from _more_  than a few informants, I hear that the pair of them are being hunted by the Orlesian spy network."

Lavellan straightens in alarm. " _Hunted?_  Why?"

"According to the stableboy, one of the Orlesian healers was convinced that Fenris was more than simply well-healed, but potentially resurrected," Leliana says, shifting on her feet. "They wanted to examine him, but he and Hawke left - _escaped,_  more likely - before they had the chance. It is very quietly done, but there are standing orders to... restrain the pair of them, if one is giving the chance. It is a polite demand to capture them and bring them in for bounty, essentially."

"Many have sought to examine Fenris before," Lavellan says, finding it hard to keep the bite from his tone. "For his markings, if nothing else. This is likely the same, is it not? It might not have anything to do with Solas."

"I hope that is the case," Leliana says. "However, I sent one of my people to scout the Warden fortress. No one would speak to her directly, but in her report, she said that there was a... twist, in the Veil. I am no mage, so I cannot understand her meaning, but suffice to say _something_  happened there that confirms at least part of the stableboy's recounting. It is a troubling situation on the whole."

Lavellan bites his lip, thinking. "What can we do?"

Leliana reaches into her tunic and produces three leather-bound folders, packed with parchment - two thick ones, and one that is very thin.

"I've brought you all our information on Hawke, Fenris, and Solas," Leliana says, handing them to Lavellan. "I've combed through them myself, but I'd like to know your thoughts on all this, as our Inquisitor, as a mage, and as an elf. Perhaps there is something I am missing."

Lavellan tries not to sigh outright. _More paperwork._  "Thank you, Leliana."

Leliana nods, and leaves. 

Lavellan turns the folders over in his hands, thinking. Solas was quiet when he returned from the Exalted Plains, clearly lost in his own thoughts, which wasn't exactly new for the elf. Lavellan knows him well enough to know that Solas seems to live with one foot in this world, another planted firmly in the Fade. 

They'd spoken about Fenris, briefly, and all had seemed perfectly normal. That alone tempts Lavellan to put the folders aside.

Except...

Lavellan had asked after Fenris's health, and Solas spoke with his usual polite distance. 

" _He seems very strong,_ " Lavellan said.

And he remembers now, thinking it a little odd how Solas had smiled, some kind of gentle ruefulness playing in the corners of his lips. " _He is. More than I'd dared hope._ "

Odd, but maybe nothing. A throwaway comment, nothing more.

Lavellan purses his lips, grimaces, and sets the files down in front of him, opening the slimmest one first. _Solas. Does anyone know who you really are?_

_Do I want to know?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of excited to bring my Inquisitor into this one a little more - my wee child Mahanon who I accidentally designed to look like an eighteen year old who just needs a nap. For the sake of not wanting to throw a teenager to the wolves, I headcanon (canon?) the kid as being twenty-two, twenty-three, but honestly I still just want to tuck him into bed and wrap him in a million blankets whenever I see his adorable little face. 
> 
> And I romanced him with the goddamn Iron Bull. Go figure. Had they managed to make the poly option work in-game he'd be with Dorian and Bull, as it is I'm doing two separate playthroughs so I can go through both romances with him. My lovely gay child. 
> 
> ANYWAY. I have been absolutely blown away by the response to these fics, I love you all, and if you want to come shout at me about Wolf Family or Dragon Age in general I'm on the damn blue website at foxnonny.tumblr.com. Feel free to leave comments, questions, theories, and general shenanigans in the comments. I live for it, and thank you thank you thank you <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagging on this chapter for violence and More Bull/Lavellan Than Anticipated. Whoops. Nothing too sexy though I promise. As always, I thrive on comments, kudos, and positive vibes. Thank you to everyone who's been following this series so far!

The Orlesian market feels insufferably claustrophobic as Fenris scans the crowd, pulling the folds of his scarf a little closer over his face with a frown. 

For the most part they've been surviving the journey to the sea by their own skills in hunting and camping, stopping only in small villages on scarce occasions and never staying longer than a night. Whether by the war or the cooling weather, however, game has become scarce the further north they go. Despite their careful rationing, they've spent the last of their reserves and are in desperate need of supplies.

Fenris remembers for a heady moment the weeks after fleeing Kirkwall, the times he'd considered leaving Hawke's side, knowing that his markings made him far more recognizable than Hawke's generic Ferelden features, a striking man though he may be. He'd never found the courage to do so, and they'd suffered for it on more than one occasion. Those looking for someone to blame for the bloody war between Templars and mages would see Fenris, know him, and know who the tall mage at his side must be. Fenris tried to hide his markings as well as he could, under clothes and gloves and scarves, a hood low over his face to hide his white hair. But still, if he could not control the markings, they would often flare from under the cloth, and give both him and Hawke away regardless.

In light of the Inquisition's actions across Thedas, many have turned away from hunting the disgraced Champion of Kirkwall. Now, however, Fenris hides his face for a very different reason. There are too many demons walking the earth these days, too many strangers bearing evil to towns and villages in the path of the rifts. Fenris knows already that an elf with lyrium markings would be viewed with hostile suspicion, whether his name is known or not. Now that his transformation has made him so obviously less... _natural,_  less mortal, than those around him, his looks can only guarantee a fearful and antagonistic response.

In truth, Fenris would not blame them. If he saw something like himself walking the streets, he would instantly suspect foul magic to be afoot.

_And I would be right to do so, would I not?_

"We are nearly done," Hawke murmurs to him, obviously sensing his unease. "Are you alright?"

Fenris just nods, casting his eyes to the ground. _Venhedis, but I cannot live my life feeling sorry for myself. Especially if it proves to be longer than most._

Hawke turns back to the vendor before them, accepting a waxed bag of dry oat cakes and another of cured meats with a nod of thanks and a briefly muttered and poorly executed phrase in Orlesian. Fenris knows a little of the language, as Danarius had him learn some to impress visiting diplomats, but he's very out of practice, only catching the occasional snatches of conversation from passersby.

Hawke stows the food in his pack, going so far as to take Fenris's hand with a gentle smile. There's always a war in Fenris's chest when Hawke does this, arguing that he doesn't _need_  it, he should be stronger than this.

He laces their fingers together instead, and leans into Hawke's side. _He'll allow himself to need it, while he can._

" _Messere! Messere Hawke, n'est-ce pas?_ "

Hawke may not know Orlesian well, but he knows his own name, and Fenris feels him stiffen at his side.

"Keep walking," Fenris suggests quietly, muffled by the scarf around his face. Hawke's ears are sharp, and he squeezes Fenris's hand in understanding as they continue to maneuver through the market.

" _Messere Hawke, s'il vous plaît, un moment seulement! Ah, flammes d'Andraste, j'ai perdu ma tête._  Messere Hawke, I am sorry, if you could- I have a message for you, please."

Hawke pauses, trading a glance with Fenris, who shakes his head very slightly.

Hawke bites his lip, and turns back to the man behind them. Fenris grinds his teeth, and releases Hawke's hand, dropping into a more alert stance -  ready to strike, if need be. He left his greatsword with their horses, but he still has daggers up his sleeves, just in case.

"What makes you think I'm Hawke?" Hawke asks coolly, folding his arms.

The Orlesian who's been tailing them is small, a little mouselike, but clearly of some formal ranking if the gold inlay of his mask is anything to go by. He bows briefly, barely a dip of his head, and his thin mouth lifts in a smile.

"I would be absolutely useless to my overlord if I could not recognize a man as renowned as the Champion, messere," the Orlesian says smoothly. "We heard you might be coming this way."

"Did you?" Hawke says, his tone neutral. Fenris flicks a clasp inset in his sleeve with his thumb and feels the comforting weight of a dagger's pommel drop gently into his palm, hidden from sight by his cloak.

"My apologies for how ominous that must sound," the Orlesian says with a light laugh. "I know these are dark times, and you have every right to wariness. However, I am here only to extend an invitation. The roads are hard to travel these days, and we hear of an open rift not too far out of town. My lord would have you stay in his halls tonight; longer, if need be. Wherever you are going, we would be happy to see you arrive there safe from harm."

Hawke raises an eyebrow. "Your lord...?"

"Marquis de Chatillon, messere. He is at his manse in town to oversee fortifications against potential attacks from our enemies, human or otherwise."

"Marquis de Chatillon, then. He's a fan of Varric Tethras's books, I suppose? I can't imagine why else he'd want to provide shelter for an unwashed traveller with no real title outside a city that's half-ash, now."

The Orlesian bobs his head, and says, "In truth, messere, my lord has heard that the Inquisitor views you and your companion favourable. In Orlais, all are hoping to garner the Herald's good will, in hopes to gain political power. Personally, I would think it wise to take advantage of such connections, no? As I said, the roads are dangerous. It would be an unbearable humiliation for the Marquis, were you to reject his invitation and come to death so close to safe haven."

"Well, we wouldn't want to humiliate the Marquis," Hawke says, sarcasm dripping from his words.

Fenris closes his eyes for a long moment, then pulls the scarf away from his face, meeting the Orlesian's eyes through the holes in his mask.

"Please inform the Marquis that we have a few more errands to attend to in the market, and then we will be very grateful to join him at his manse, if that is his will," Fenris says, with a polite nod.

The Orlesian's jaw goes slack, staring at Fenris's face, but he eventually swallows and replies, " _Oui_ , messere. Ah, of course, if that is what the _Champion_ wills-?"

"It is," Hawke says shortly, eyes narrowing. "And I'll thank you not to look to me for confirmation any time my partner opens his mouth." 

The Orlesian offers a shallow bow. "Meaning no offence, messere. I will go inform the Marquis at once."

Without another word, the Orlesian turns and hurries off into the crowd. Fenris pulls the scarf back up into place, before anyone can see his face. 

"I _hate_  Orlais," Hawke mutters darkly. "Shit, Fenris, I'm sorry, I just wanted to know-"

"Perhaps it's better that we _do_  know," Fenris says, taking Hawke's arm and guiding him quickly through the crowd. "They knew we were coming. They know what we look like."

"They're tracking us," Hawke says, his voice barely a whisper. "How long, do you think? Since the Plains? Why?"

Fenris winces, and says, "Solas... said that the Orlesians at the fortress were- interested. Potentially. It's why I asked to leave as soon as we were able. I just didn't think-"

Hawke stops him, a hand on his shoulder turning Fenris to face him. "What did he mean, _interested?_ "

Fenris finds it hard to meet Hawke's eyes. He's still not told him any of what Solas said to him that day, still hasn't found the words. In honesty, the Orlesian's reaction to his resurrection has been far from his mind, in light of everything else. 

"They saw me, Hawke," Fenris says wearily. "They knew I should have been dead. Solas said they were thinking of imprisoning us. Beyond that, I don't know. It didn't seem like they were that interested in keeping us there."

Hawke frowns, his grip on Fenris's shoulder tightening as he seems to mull Fenris's words over.

"Like that man said, they want to curry favour with the Inquisitor," Hawke says slowly. "They weren't about to do anything with a member of the Inquisition around."

"Better if we disappear on the road, after being seen in several places beyond the fortress," Fenris says, nodding. "Hawke, that man wasn't just telling us about dangerous travels to tempt us with a roof over our heads. It was a warning. They're going to try to stop us."

Hawke sets his jaw, turning back into the crowd with a steely look in his honey eyes. "We have fast horses, fresh supplies, and I am very, _very_  pissed. They can try."

-

Lavellan is lost in hazy half-dreams, frowning through imagined war table meetings and battles and encounters with dignitaries who call him _Herald, Inquisitor,_   _rabbit_ , when a large hand on his shoulder makes him jump with a short shout. 

"Just me, _kadan._  Shit, you look rough."

Lavellan sits up sleepily, still struggling to put his mind back together and batting away a loose leaf of parchment stuck to his face. There's a low chuckle, and Lavellan finds himself scooped up easily out of his desk chair, held close against a broad chest. 

" _Ma serannas, ma vhenan_ ," Lavellan murmurs, curling into Bull's arms as the qunari carries him over to his bed. " _Ar lath ma._ "

"Aww, whatever you said, I'm sure it was very sweet," Bull says, lying back on Lavellan's mattress and rearranging Lavellan's limbs so he can stretch out along Bull's chest. Lavellan folds his arms over Bull's collarbone, sighing gratefully as Bull starts to work large, gentle hands along the stiff muscles of his spine. "It feels like you have a bunch of rocks in your back, Boss. You doing okay? The 'Vint's starting to get worried, and you know how he is. Absolutely no fun when he's got his silk panties in a bunch."

"Nngh," Lavellan responds, wincing as Bull finds a particularly sore spot and digs in. "I'm sorry, I- _Fenedhis lasa_ , ow, I've been... investigated something. Sort of. Nothing is making any sense. I just got _another_  report from Leliana's people, and it's honestly just made everything worse, and I know it's only two people but for _fuck's_  sake I didn't let Stroud stay behind in the Fade just so the Champion could go and get killed somewhere-"

Lavellan's cut off by a large hand over his mouth, and he looks up at Bull questioningly, who frowns back at him.

"Are you sure you should be telling me this, _kadan_?" Bull says quietly.

Lavellan scowls, knocking Bull's hand away. "You're not working for the Ben-Hassrath anymore, Bull. You know I trust you."

"You trust everyone, way too fucking easily," Bull says, gently smoothing a few strands of dark hair from Lavellan's face. "It's dangerous."

"I don't trust _everyone_ ," Lavellan mutters, nestling his face back into the makeshift pillow of his folded arms. "I just... need some advice. _Creators_ , but I hate this. I'm investigating Solas."

Bull snorts. "It's taken you this long?"

"We did background checks on every member of the inner circle when you all joined, even Cassandra," Lavellan says. "But this is... different. The Orlesian spy network is after the Champion of Kirkwall. Well, more specifically, after his partner."

"Fenris," Bull says. "Formerly Leto, and an escaped slave. Lyrium warrior. Ran with the Fog Warriors of Seheron for a while." At Lavellan's raised eyebrow, Bull shrugs. "Word gets around. So, what, they want to figure out how to make sparkly elves themselves? I should tell them to just get a few drinks down a pretty elf mage's throat and watch the sparks fly."

Lavellan flushes, feeling the heat spread to the tips of his ears. "That wasn't _a few drinks_ , that was some unholy qunari liquor with an intent to kill."

"You're a lightweight," Bull says simply, working his hands back into Lavellan's stiff muscles. "I can't get you and Dorian tipsy at the same time, you know. Between your lightning fetish and Dorian's habit of setting things on fire, I'm gonna wind up fried one way or another."

"And here I thought you liked a little danger," Lavellan murmurs, pressing his lips to Bull's chest. 

In a flash, Bull catches Lavellan's wrists up in his hands, pinning them against the small of his back. Lavellan bites back a groan at this, going limp and pliant in Bull's grasp.

"I like controlled risks," Bull says, running the tips of his fingers up Lavellan's spine. The touch is torturously light through Lavellan's thin shirt, and he can't help the small whine that escapes him at this. 

Then Bull releases his wrists, and returns to massaging Lavellan's back, and Lavellan doesn't know if he's grateful or enormously put out by this.

"So the Orlesians are in the market for a lyrium elf?" Bull says, his low voice rumbling through his chest. Lavellan turns his head, pressing a long ear to Bull's skin, hearing the strong thud of Bull's heart through his flesh. 

"It's more than that," Lavellan says. "Apparently... Solas _did_  something. Something big. The Orlesians seem to think that Fenris was... brought back to life, instead of healed. So they want to arrest him and Hawke to figure out what exactly was done - presumably to find out how to replicate it, or- I don't know. I thought it was complete nugshit myself, but one of Leliana's scouts just returned with a report. He caught sight of Hawke and Fenris in a village north of the Plains, and he said Fenris looked... odd."

"Odd how?"

"He wasn't exactly helpful on that point, given that he described Fenris the way Varric describes the love interests in that romance serial Cassandra likes to read. All "flawless skin and eyes like jewels." The only thing that really caught my attention in the report was that he apparently looked  _too_ perfect. Like something out of a painting, or a living statue. He could be a spirit now, or- Creators, I just don't _know_. Leliana says that the report came from one of her most trusted agents, too, one who never exaggerates or overstates a situation."

"So you think Solas might have... what, pulled a Dorian? Become a necromancer?"

"Dorian doesn't raise people from the dead and keep them walking around like living people," Lavellan says. "I didn't think anyone could do that. And from what I know of the Champion, I know he'd be able to tell if Fenris were no longer himself, wouldn't he?"

"It can be hard to let go of someone you love, even if they become a monster," Bull says quietly. Lavellan lifts his head, eyeing him carefully for a more personal meaning behind the words, but Bull just shakes his head. "Nah, I met the guy too. He'd definitely put a knife in his lover's heart before letting a weird puppet version of them walk around. He's a tough fucker, when all is said and done."

"That's what I thought too," Lavellan says, resting his head on Bull's chest again. "So it could still be nothing, just Orlesian hysterics paired with a natural interest in seeing the only living lyrium warrior in modern times. But it doesn't explain Leliana's agent's report."

"There's a few missing pieces here, if you really want to do this right," Bull says. "You're lacking a motive, first of all. Why would Solas go to the trouble of doing something... _weird_  to Fenris? Did he seem upset with the guy?"

"Complete opposite," Lavellan says, biting his lip. "When Hawke came to Skyhold, Solas was very eager to meet him, specifically to ask about Fenris. When I approached him and Dorian after receiving Hawke's letter, he practically leapt at the chance to run off and provide aid. I'm relatively certain he likes Fenris far better than he likes me."

"Fenris is a powerful figure, from what I've heard," Bull says. "You know, he's got the whole arc there - escaped slave, survived a mysterious ritual no one's lived through in hundreds of years, now frees elves from Tevinter slavers across the map. Even the Arishok respected him, from the reports we got back from Kirkwall. He knows his shit. And he isn't Dalish, so Solas hasn't got that to thumb his nose at. Still, just liking a guy wouldn't explain, you know, doing dark and mysterious magic on him to bring him back from the dead. Have you asked him about it directly?"

Lavellan shakes his head. "I... truth be told, he intimidates me a little, and we _need_  his counsel regarding the Veil and the Fade. If he finds out Leliana is investigating him, he might take offence and leave. Or, if there _is_  something odd about the situation, but nothing that compromises his position with the Inquisition, he still might leave and we risk losing an asset over nothing. Until I have more to go on, I don't want to approach him just yet."

"Smart," Bull says approvingly, mussing Lavellan's hair fondly and grinning as Lavellan scowls at him. "In the meantime, what about Hawke and Fenris? Do they know the Orlesians are after them?"

"They've been disappearing into the forests, only coming up on occasion for supplies, so it's reasonable to assume they're at least suspicious," Lavellan says. "I've thought about bringing it to the war table, but I already know what my advisors would say."

"Oh?"

"Well, Josephine would insist we contact the nobles along Hawke and Fenris's route to the sea - that seems their trajectory, at any rate - and demand that our allies give them shelter. Cullen would suggest sending an armed force to escort them all the way to wherever they're going, and Leliana would... I don't know. Assassins would likely be involved. Besides, they may be trying to flee us as well. If the stories about Fenris are true, we have a duty to ensure that he isn't dangerous, don't we?"

"Maybe," Bull says. He's silent for a moment, then says, "Alright, the way I see it, it comes down to this: the elf is the unknown element in all this, yeah? But we can at least guess some of what Hawke might be thinking at any given moment, by his behaviour and what we already know. So if you want to figure out whether the elf is some kind of monster now, you have to ask yourself if you trust Hawke enough to know an abomination when he sees one."

"I do," Lavellan says instantly, and Bull sighs. "Don't give me that, you met him too. You were the one who just said he'd kill his lover if he had to."

"Yeah, but I'm not the Inquisitor, Boss," Bull says, his voice soft. "I've been wrong before, and I'm only going by my - what, maybe a few hours of actual interaction, probably less. I don't _know_  him. And I definitely don't know Fenris, beyond a half-dozen reports floated my way."

Lavellan buries his face in Bull's chest, his head pounding. He feels a little of his helpless frustration melt away as Bull takes this opportunity to move his massaging hands to the base of Lavellan's neck, where his muscles are at their tightest, wound up by stress and hunching over a desk for the past few days. He's gone through the files on Hawke, Fenris, and Solas over and over again, trying to figure out the mismatched pieces of this particular puzzle, how they might fit together. Whether it's worth trying to make it fit to begin with.

Then, with a start, he says, "Varric knows Hawke."

Bull cups Lavellan's head in his hands, lifting his face to look him in the eye. "You're gonna talk to Varric?"

"I should, shouldn't I? He and Hawke are very close, and Varric's certain to know a thing or two about Fenris."

"Are you going to tell him everything then? About Solas, too?"

"I'd have to, wouldn't I?" Lavellan sighs, turning his head to press his lips against Bull's palm. "The priority in all this mess is ensuring that Fenris hasn't become... I don't know, the next Corypheus waiting to happen, I suppose. And if we are certain that Fenris isn't dangerous, then we know that Solas isn't dangerous - to us, at least. We can put this behind us with no one the wiser."

"Save myself, you, Dorian probably, Leliana, and now Varric," Bull says dryly. 

"If it means protecting Hawke, Varric will keep quiet," Lavellan says. "He's already proven that."

Bull looks at him for a long moment, and nods. "Alright. Tomorrow, then."

Lavellan shakes his head, pushing himself up with a groan. "It's barely evening, I should go to Varric now, pull him aside-"

Lavellan yelps as Bull rolls them over, pinning Lavellan's wrists on his pillow above his head.

"You're burning yourself out," Bull murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to Lavellan's hair. "You need to stop thinking for a while. Dorian'll bring some food up later, and we're going to have a nice night together, and then you're going to sleep in a bed so you don't walk hunched over like an old man for the rest of your life."

Lavellan squirms a little in Bull's grip, then sighs in defeat, struggling to hold back an anticipatory grin. "There's no use fighting it, hmm?"

"None at all," Bull says, busying himself with the buttons of Lavellan's shirt with his free hand. "I mean you can, if you want. We'd have to negotiate it first, lay some ground rules-"

Lavellan knees Bull in the stomach, playfully, straining up to meet Bull's lips. "How about we go back to the part where you promised I wouldn't have to think for a while?"

"That, I can do."

-

There isn't enough forest to take cover in, north of the town, so Hawke and Fenris try for speed instead. They wait until they're a little ways beyond the last watchtower, and break into a swift canter, hoping to find some wild growth to disappear in before the Orlesians realize they've slipped away.

No such luck.

Just over a half hour from their departure, a small force of men appear in the distance before them. Looking behind, they see another group close on their tail. 

"It's going to come down to a fight," Hawke says grimly, undoing the straps keeping his staff latched to the saddlebags. 

"Might as well meet them head-on, then," Fenris says, a hand to the pommel of his greatsword. It's not a weapon made for horseback - he'll have to dismount when they meet their foe. "Quickly, before the others catch up and we're overtaken completely."

They urge their horses forward, faster, Hawke downing a flask of lyrium and tossing the empty bottle carelessly over one shoulder, his eyes fixed on the men ahead of them.

In a few minutes they pull up before the Orlesians, who seem similarly set for a battle. Fenris stiffens as he sees that one of the men has a large net with him, and several others are armed with catch poles.

"What can we do for you fine gentlemen today?" Hawke says, though by his flat tone and narrowed eyes, he's noticed the Orlesians' choice of weapons as well. 

"We have no quarrel with you, Champion," one of the men says, lifting a hand. "We act only by the orders of our overlord. Your companion is to be taken into custody. If you resist, we will have no choice but to arrest you as well. We have orders to kill you, if need be, but we hope it does not come to that."

"On what charge am I to be arrested?" Fenris asks, fighting the urge to pull his sword and run them all through now, to have done with it. "It doesn't speak well of Orlesian _honour_  that you carry the tools of slavers with you."

"It is not for us to question our orders, _rabbit_ ," the leader says, though there's a slight uncertainty in his voice. 

Looking around, Fenris realizes that all the soldiers seem a little nervous, and he remembers belatedly that his face is no longer covered. He bares his teeth, and has to contain a smirk when more then a few of the men flinch. 

"Our lord did not send us empty-handed, Champion," another Orlesian says, patting a satchel at his side. "He's prepared to offer due compensation for the loss of your servant-"

The man abruptly bursts into flames, causing his horse to rear and send his smouldering corpse tumbling from the saddle. Hawke's staff is lifted, his expression murderous, another spell already building from the large crystal set in the head.

Fenris is off his horse and rolling to dodge arrows and hooves, leaping forward into the fray with a snarl. They're not good odds, but he and Hawke have had worse, and his reflexes and strength have been far improved with his resurrection. 

He activates his lyrium, feeling the rush of energy flow up and over his arms and legs, and the sight of this alone seems enough to spook more than a few of the horses. Riders either struggle to control their mounts or abandon them completely, and Fenris picks them off, weaving between the Orlesians with the unnatural speed afforded to him by his powers. He pulls a heart from the chest of a man with a catch pole eagerly, twisting and catching the hilt of his greatsword in both hands to bring it down on another foe behind him, phasing to avoid an arrow through his chest. Hawke sends the horses scattering with a wall of flame, then calls bolts of lightning from the sky to catch individual fighters as they turn to attack him. 

They're nearly done with the first group when the second wave catches up from behind, and the pace of the battle shifts.

Now, Hawke and Fenris are forced to play defence, as they begin to tire from the first bout of fighting, whereas these men are fresh. Still, they manage to hold their own, the fluidity of long years fighting at one another's side in every move, every block. A man straightens to loose an arrow at Hawke, and Fenris is there, slicing off his arms. Another leaps to hamstring Fenris with a low swipe, and is frozen in a block of ice, courtesy of Hawke.

They are nearly coming even with the Orlesians, exhausted but determined, when Fenris turns to see a giant man with a mace in mid-swing aimed at his head. Fenris phases-

And everyone disappears.

Fenris stumbles back, heart battering at his chest from shock and exertion, as he looks about with wild eyes. It still _looks_  like the same place, the grass yellowing beneath his bare feet, the sky a dusky evening blue. But there's an odd bleed at the edges, like smeared paint on a portrait, and as he turns about in a quick circle, Hawke and the Orlesians are nowhere to be found. 

He looks down at himself, his breath coming in short gasps. The lyrium is still glowing brightly, his skin lit up like a paper lantern with blue light. He's still phased. 

He hears someone shouting his name, but it sounds very far away, like an echo of a memory. He squints, and realizes that he can still see shapes of people around him - the only proof of their existence a slight haze in the air around him, like the distortion of evaporation on a hot day. _What is happening to me?_

He hears his name called again, and knows only one thing - if he is here, wherever _here_  is, then Hawke is alone. _Hawke needs him_.

With a shout of frustration, he forces his markings to deactivate.

Immediately the sounds and sights of the battle come back into existence, leaving him utterly disoriented for a few fatal seconds. 

There's a burst of pain in his left shoulder as the giant catches him with the mace, sending him flying, landing hard on the ground. He curses and pushes himself up, sword forgotten - he can't wield it with his shoulder the way it is, now, but he has other weapons. He looks around for Hawke.

Hawke is several horse-lengths away, _too far_  away, off his horse and on his back with his staff brought up just in time to catch a blow from an Orlesian longsword. Fenris scrambles to his feet, leaping forward with a shout.

A net obscures his vision, catching him up short and tangling around his ankles, the weights swinging around and twisting up together so he's utterly snared. He stumbles, activating his markings out of habit, even with his fear of disappearing again.

Nothing. There's something worked into the net to cancel out the lyrium - maybe magebane, maybe something else. Either way, he's trapped.

The mace smashes into him again, this time slamming hard into his back, forcing him down to his knees with a wheeze as all the air is knocked clean from his lungs. He thrashes in the net, struggling to free himself, when he's flipped over and pinned to the ground by the giant's knee. 

"Not so frightening now, little elf," the man says, wrapping a gauntlet around Fenris's throat. Fenris snarls, twisting to escape the giant's hold, to no effect. "Very pretty, though. The orders were to take you alive, but it'll be our little secret if we decide to have some fun with you first-"

The man is knocked off of Fenris by a strong blast of magic, and before he can cry out, is promptly crushed by an enormous block of stone called up from the ground around them. 

Fenris turns his head to see Hawke stumbling over, a hand to his bleeding ribs and supporting himself with his staff, a hard expression in his eyes. Everyone behind him is dead.

"Are you-?" Fenris asks, looking at Hawke's blood-covered hands.

"I'm fine," Hawke says, though he's limping a little as he approaches. 

It catches up with Fenris, the sensation of being trapped, being _netted._  He closes his eyes against painful memories, fighting the urge to thrash about like a wild animal, only ensnaring himself more in the process.

"Garrett, get me out," Fenris says, his voice tight. " _Please._ "

He doesn't open his eyes, shivering at the feeling of ropes pressed tight against his face and arms, and he flinches even knowing it's Hawke's hands working at the ropes, untangling the weights and pulling the net apart to free him. The moment the net slips away from his head and shoulders, Fenris scrambles out of the rest, working his ankles out of the mess of ropes with shaking hands and kicking the net away when he's done, breathing hard.

He starts as Hawke puts his arms around him, then relaxes against him, turning his head into Hawke's shoulder with a full-body shudder.

"You're alright," Hawke murmurs, a hand stroking over his hair. "It's alright."

Fenris allows himself a few moments to breathe, then nods, pulling away from Hawke enough to examine his chest and the blood seeping from his side. "You're hurt."

"Shallow," Hawke grunts, getting to his feet and pulling Fenris up with him. "Long and shallow. Tricky bastard with a sharp blade."

"I'll stitch it when we make camp," Fenris says, removing his scarf and wrapping it tightly around Hawke's midsection, wincing as this jostles his battered shoulder.

Once he's finished tying off the makeshift bandage, Hawke turns him around gently. Fenris can hear him hiss at the sight of Fenris's mangled shoulder. " _Maker_ , Fenris-"

"It'll be fine," Fenris says, stepping away from Hawke and going to retrieve his horse, who seems far too content to nibble at the grass nearby. It knows by now to clear out of the way when Fenris dismounts to fight, and seems generally unconcerned by the fate of his rider. "I heal quickly, now. It will likely be gone within the day."

"Quickly, but not _that_  quickly," Hawke says, limping over to his own horse. Then, he says, "Fenris... what happened, when we were fighting?"

Fenris takes the reins of his horse, and does not look back at Hawke. It's too much, forcing down his rattled nerves from being trapped in the net, on top of whatever fresh madness his markings have thrown him into now. "What did it look like to you?"

"You _vanished_ ," Hawke says. "You were there one moment, and then you were gone. Completely gone, not just phased. And there was an odd... ripple."

Fenris looks back with a frown, as Hawke struggles to mount his horse, cursing under his breath. "What do you mean, a ripple?"

Hawke pulls himself up by the pommel and swings a leg over, nearly toppling off the other side of his mount before steadying himself. The horse snorts at him.

"In the Veil, I think," Hawke says, turning his horse towards Fenris once he's balanced, re-securing his staff against the saddlebags. "I'm not certain. All I know is that whatever you did, I felt it. But there's no tear in the Veil, as far as I can tell."

"Well, that's something," Fenris mutters, disturbed. He mounts his own horse with slightly more ease and grace than Hawke did his, but not by much. "I don't know. To me, it seemed as if everyone else disappeared. It was... disturbing."

Hawke pulls his horse up close to Fenris, reaching over to place a comforting hand on Fenris's knee. When Fenris meets his eyes, they're soft, concerned. It nearly sets him trembling again, so he looks away. 

"The sooner we find Merrill, the better," Hawke says quietly, gently squeezing Fenris's knee. "We'll figure it out, love. I promise."

Fenris nods, putting his hand over Hawke's, taking comfort from his warmth, his presence _._

Traitorously, he wonders if the only one who might have answers from him is far away in another direction, serving quietly at the Inquisitor's side.

He shakes his head and urges his horse forward, shoving these thoughts aside with a scowl. No, there must be another way. There had to be someone else who could help him, other than the man who did this to him. 

(And still, part of him wishes the Wolf of his memories might visit tonight in his dreams, as he used to when Fenris had need of him. He can't entirely put the thought from his mind.)


	3. Chapter 3

"So, you want to talk about... Hawke?"

Lavellan nods, and passes a plate of assorted pastries across the low table between himself and Varric, smiling. "Cake?"

"I'll take it, but with mild trepidation," Varric says dryly, snatching up a strawberry jam tart and raising an eyebrow at Lavellan. "I know you've read my book, and Leliana's files, and probably whatever friend fiction the Seeker has squirrelled away in her armour. What else is there to tell?"

"I'm more interested in Hawke's companion, actually," Lavellan says. "Fenris."

"Why, you looking to recruit?" Varric says through a mouthful of tart. "He's not gonna want to do us any favours, believe me. He nearly beat the living shit out of Hawke when they got to Weisshaupt, you know, and he genuinely loves the guy. Not so much with the warm and fuzzies in our direction."

Lavellan winces. "I can imagine. No, I do not wish to put them in any more danger. However, there's... a situation."

Varric frowns, his easy cheer slipping from his face. "What kind of situation?"

Lavellan explains as best he can, watching Varric's reaction carefully. Varric's eyes widen at times, before narrowing into a steady glower as Lavellan mentions the Orlesians hunting them.

"Damn," Varric says quietly, after a long silence following Lavellan's words. "Well, if the stories are true and all, I'm pretty fucking astonished the elf didn't snap Chuckles' neck for doing that to him."

"Apparently there was some kind of confrontation after Fenris was... healed," Lavellan says, rubbing his forehead. "But yes, Solas was left in one piece. Perhaps Fenris was grateful-?"

"Not a chance," Varric says flatly. "He's mellowed out about a lot of things, but that kind of magic? Especially if it- changed him somehow, shit, that's creepy. Andraste's tits, _I'd_  probably put an arrow through someone's face for that."

"So is Fenris's reaction to all this not... in-character, for him?" Lavellan asks carefully. "And Hawke... he would know if it weren't, wouldn't he?"

Varric blinks at him, and his scowl morphs into something resigned, maybe a little sad. "You're asking if he's dangerous."

"I don't want him to be," Lavellan says, almost pleading. "Varric, I admire Fenris greatly, you _must_  understand that. And Hawke has done more than enough for us. Were it my will, I would leave them be."

"It is _your will_ ," Varric says, a little bite in his words. Then, he sighs. "I know you don't mean them any harm. It's just... well, _shit._ "

"My thoughts exactly," Lavellan says, grimacing. 

Varric glares down at the table for a moment, hands clasped, and closes his eyes. "If the elf was... not himself, or- basically, if he were in any way _not_  Fenris, Hawke would put him down. It would kill him to do it though, and I mean that. Fenris is about the only family he has left, with Carver a Warden and all. He's been in love with that brooding grouch for nearly a decade now, you should have seen him at the Hanged Man the night after we first met the guy. He kept going on about-" Varric pauses, and shakes his head. "If Fenris is still alive, and Hawke is with him, we can trust Hawke's judgement on this. I wouldn't say he isn't dangerous because Maker knows that's never been true, but at the very least, Fenris isn't dangerous to the good guys."

Lavellan nods, a little relieved despite himself. "Thank you, Varric. I thought so, but... I wanted to know for certain."

"Leaves the question, though," Varric continues, eyeing Lavellan sharply. "What are you gonna do about the Orlesians? And Chuckles, for that matter?"

Lavellan sighs. "Leliana's sending agents to intercept the Orlesians as quietly as possible - just enough so the Champion and Fenris can make it to the sea, and out of the country. As for Solas... I don't know. If he truly did no harm, then there's nothing to be said on the matter, is there?"

"Maybe," Varric says, sounding unconvinced. "It's up to you, boss." 

-

_The Wolf hunts._

_It bounds through dreams and nightmares alike, old memories long forgotten, an itch under its thick silver-white pelt, a hunger without a name. It wants to learn, it wants to prove it is not afraid, it wants power, it wants..._

_A corrupted spirit laughs at it as it passes, and follows along, baiting it. Changing forms until it becomes an aging magister with cruel little eyes and a hungry smile._

_It is not as hungry as the Wolf. In moments, the spirit is torn to shreds, and the Wolf continues its hunt._

_It wants... it wants..._

_A rolling country appears, farmland for miles, the grass coarse and damp beneath its paws. A village, ahead, small and simple. For a moment it flashes into a burning wreck, then settles again. Whole._

_Closer, and then through the empty village. There is something here... someone..._

_Around a corner, over a fence, and there is a small farm, a man leaning against the fence, staring into the distance. Thinking. Black hair, amber eyes..._

_It wants..._

_The Wolf bares its teeth, coming to a halt behind the man, pawing the ground. It hungers, but not to kill this man. It wants, but not blood. Not flesh. Not yet._

_The confusion is unbearable, and the Wolf howls its frustration. It wants to_ know _. What it is, why its here, why it is lost and wanting and hungry and vengeful, all at once._

_The man whirls around at the sound, honey eyes wide, his mouth falling open at the sight of the Wolf._

_"Maker," he breathes, raising his hands to defend himself, fear stark in his expression. "What_ are _you?"_

_The Wolf snaps its teeth at the question, the itch and hunger and frustration and want overtaking it. With a snarl, it bounds away, but not very far._

_Just to a small pond, nearby, still and clear as glass. The Wolf pauses at the water's edge, feeling the eyes of the man still on him, still smelling his fear._

What are you? _A good question, one that the Wolf only barely has enough rational thought left to ponder, beyond the hunger, and the wanting..._

_It hangs its head, catching sight of its reflection in the water. But it is not a wolf in the reflection._

_It is an elf, panting and desperate, lips and teeth and face stained with blood as he stares back at it, wide-eyed. Horrified._

 

Fenris wakes with a shout, shoving himself away from his bedroll, away from Hawke, nearly tumbling into the embers of the nearby fire. Hawke wakes at his cry, sitting up and reaching for him, asking... something, Fenris does not know. His heart pounds in his chest, the lyrium in his skin responding, lighting up, _pulling-_

Fenris's back hits a tree that wasn't there a moment ago, the camp utterly gone, and Hawke with it.

_No, no, no-_

The edges of this false forest bleed like a watercolour painting, and there are slight shimmers to suggest the world he fell out of exists still, but otherwise Fenris is alone.

He bites back the panic rising in him, trying to _understand_ , trying to _think-_

This becomes significantly more challenging as something _surges_  from within him, causing him to fall back with a cry, a hand clutching at his head, his chest. 

_It wants, it hungers, it's lost-_

Fenris rolls with a gasp, struggling to keep his mind in check. There's some horrific _pull_  at his consciousness, like a call to madness, a call to abandon all thought and become _something_  else. The lyrium pulses in his skin and he groans, fighting the urge-

_-to hunt, to devour, to run-_

-to give in to whatever this is, whatever is being done to him-

"Fenris!"

Fenris forces his eyes open, and nearly sobs in relief to see Hawke kneeling down before him, eyes wide. "Fenris, love, what's happening-?"

"I do not know," Fenris says, almost choking on the words. He reaches for Hawke-

- _it wants-_

-and realizes that Hawke isn't- isn't as _real_ , as he is. There's something insubstantial about him that Fenris cannot identify. _He isn't here. Not really._

"I thought you might be here," Hawke says, closing the distance between them and pulling Fenris into his arms, and it's Hawke and it _isn't_  at the same time. "I took a sleeping draught. Bit of a risk, but I was right, and- Maker, Fenris-"

"Hawke, I need-"

- _to hunt, to run-_

"-to leave here," Fenris says, clutching the front of Hawke's shirt, and it's not real, _it's not real_. "Please, I do not- I do not know where I am, and something is- _changing_  me, I cannot-"

"Listen to me, love," Hawke says, taking Fenris's face in his hands, his voice full with a calm authority that Fenris clings to. "How did you come back last time?"

"I do not know," Fenris says, fighting to keep his eyes fixed on Hawke's, his mind fixed on _Hawke_. "The lyrium- I made it stop, but I cannot-" 

"Yes, you can," Hawke says gently, his expression earnest, speaking with a confidence Fenris does not share. "Breathe, and turn it off. Come back to me."

_No! It wants to be free, to be let loose, to know itself now that it has wakened-_

Fenris cries out, pressing his face into Hawke's shoulder, struggling for control. _Just make it stop. Make it stop, or-_

_-give in, let the Wolf run loose-_

_No!_

Fenris pitches forward, barely catching himself in time to avoid falling on his face into cold, damp earth. _Real_  earth.

He blinks, and shudders, his heart still hammering at his ribs as he drags fistfuls of dirt into his hands, finding comfort in the reality of it. The honesty of it. _This is real. Everything around you now is real._

The call to madness is no longer present, no longer trying to drag him into some other form, but... he feels it, now. Prowling about in the back of his mind, waiting. _The Wolf._

He hears a snore that knocks him from his thoughts, distracting him from his fear and confusion for a brief moment. He looks up.

Hawke lies sprawled across the ground, an empty vial held loosely in one outstretched hand, a few drops left clinging to the glass. _Fast asleep._

Fenris trembles a little, still, but he can't help but smile at Hawke's peaceful expression. He always seems happiest while sleeping, or just after Fenris has had his way with him. Often the former occurs very quickly on the heels of the latter. It's sweet, and a welcome distraction from Fenris's racing mind. 

Carefully, Fenris rolls Hawke back onto the bedroll, wrapping the blankets up over both of them and letting his head rest on Hawke's chest, the cloth of Hawke's shirt bundled up in Fenris's fist. He does not know how long the draught will last, but he is willing to wait.

He does not go back to sleep.

-

Solas walks the paths of Skyhold, watching as nobles and soldiers of centuries past walk the halls like ghosts, fading from one memory to another. There is rich history here to explore, much to see, much to think about.

Until somewhere, far in the distance, he hears a Wolf howl.

He pauses in his steps, Skyhold fading around him as the Wolf's cry echoes endlessly around him. He tilts his head to listen.

He smiles.

"The Wolf has been hunting in dreams, becoming more aware, this past while."

Solas turns to see a spirit of Curiosity approaching him, and he cannot help but grimace. Curiosity is common enough in the Fade, a small and friendly spirit when encountered, though easily warped into Obsession. Still small, and common, but far more dangerous.

"I am surprised you know of him," Solas says, and Curiosity tilts its head. "He is very far away, now. _Fen'len_ , though perhaps no longer, now that his powers have begun to awaken _._  The White Wolf, I suppose."

"All spirits know of it, as all know of its sire," Curiosity says, drifting closer to Solas. " _The White Wolf._  It does not understand what it is. It destroys, and it hungers, and it wants. It _needs_."

"Yes," Solas says. "I know."

"And yet, you wait," Curiosity says, stretching its form until its approximation of eyes are level with Solas's. "I do not understand. You are tied by blood, you could find it. You could help."

"I will," Solas says, folding his arms. "But he must learn what it is that he needs, first."

_Me. I will go to him when he realizes that I am the only one who can help him, so he will not forget it. It is necessary._

The echoes of the howl finally fade, and Curiosity drifts away, leaving Solas to his thoughts. _His plans._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but stuff happens? As always, I thrive on kudos and comments and I love reading people's thoughts on Wolf Family shenanigans in general. You can find me on the damn blue website under the same name. I love you all <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAND WE'RE BACK. 
> 
> I'm dedicating this chapter to tumblr user grimsister (I can't remember if that's your ao3 handle I'm so sorry) who has been incredibly lovely and encouraging and has sent me tons of inspiration for this au. The next chapter should come sooner than this one did.
> 
> Also I'm adding full on Bull/Lavellan/Dorian tags because man there is A Lot More of Mahanon's story in here than I was anticipating and I am 100% okay with that. I hope you guys are too.

"I was in the Fade. Physically."

Hawke nods, looking almost half as exhausted as Fenris feels.

It was nearly mid-morning by the time the draught Hawke took last night wore off. Fenris spent the time watching the night turn to day, his head pillowed on Hawke's chest, then rose to hunt breakfast for the both of them. They sit close by the fire now, eating some rabbit fresh and drying the rest enough to last until they make camp again tonight. Fenris keeps his eyes on the flames, analyzing this information as clinically as he can, trying so very hard not to give in to the fear that's been eating away at him since he first tumbled out of existence during their fight with the Orlesians. 

"When you've entered that ghost state before, you've sort of been... skirting the edge of the Veil, I suppose," Hawke says, and Fenris can feel the man's eyes on him, weighing and measuring his reaction. "But now- Maker, I don't know. When your lyrium was- when it was hurting you-"

"Killing me."

Hawke winces. "Yes. Well, it would disappear at times, flexing in and out of the Fade. Perhaps now it's just... taking you with it."

Fenris grimaces. "That is far from a comforting notion."

"I don't know if it helps, but I'm hardly an academic," Hawke says gently. "I'm honestly speaking directly out of my ass right now. It only seems to happen when you use the lyrium to phase, right? Maybe you have more control over it than you think."

Fenris bites back his response to this - that using his lyrium has become as natural, as instinctive to him as breathing, and not using it out of fear of disappearing would be similar to having to remember to keep one eye closed at all times for fear of dropping off the face of the world. _He's only trying to help. He's likely just as afraid as you are._

_And he only has half the information you do._

Fenris presses his palm against his forehead, thinking. 

"The witch has studied magic of this sort for a very long while," he says, biting back a grimace at the thought. "I'm... confident she will have some ideas."

Hawke smiles, putting an arm around Fenris's shoulders and pulling him in close enough to press a quick kiss into his hair.

"At some point, you'll have to stop calling Merrill "the witch," you know."

Fenris rolls his eyes. "It's a difficult habit to break."

-

Lavellan spends two weeks wrestling with himself over how best to proceed with his investigation.

He tells Leliana that Varric's account has alleviated any concerns he has regarding Solas, but this is far from true. He watches Solas closely now, as closely as he can without spending all his hours physically sitting in the mage's rotunda beneath the library. He reads every report Leliana's agents have sent back regarding Hawke and Fenris's travels - they've made it to the coast, now, and if they haven't caught a ship north-east yet, they will soon. Since their last skirmish outside a small village near Chatillon, the pair haven't seemed to have encountered much in the way of trouble. 

This is likely because "trouble" has been swiftly taken care of ahead of Hawke and Fenris's path northwards, thanks to Leliana's long reach and swift action. 

Still, the reports confirm again and again that while nothing of Fenris or Hawke's behaviour seems abnormal for two men hoping to escape a hostile country, Fenris himself is no longer simply an elf. Beyond that, no one seems to have any idea what he's become. 

Lavellan lies awake at night, even when there's a warm body lying next to him tempting him to sleep - two, when he's lucky. He was never meant for a life of intrigue. That Orlesian ball damn near killed him, and that was before the actual knives and arrows came out. He is still convinced that most people are inherently good, as hard as this new life seems to be trying to rip that away from him. 

The most honest, and the most straightforward course of action would be to talk to Solas directly.

He suggests this to both Bull and Dorian one night. They both trade a look with one another before fixing their eyes back on Lavellan and firmly saying "No."

"If I don't trust him enough to speak to him about this, how can I trust him to watch my back in a battle? To provide the Inquisition with accurate information?" Lavellan argues, crossing his arms. "Either his intentions are good, which it seems they are, or they are not. I can't stand not knowing. Either I'll have to bring him everywhere I go to keep an eye on him, or leave him here and hope he doesn't- I don't know, blow up Skyhold while I'm gone."

" _Amatus_ , this kind of situation is... tricky," Dorian says, rubbing his forehead and leaning back against Bull's chest. It's all too tempting to abandon this line of thought and curl up in bed with his lovers, but Lavellan is much too agitated to do much else but pace right now. "If you were to confront him, it would require quite a lot of delicate handling. You would have to be very careful what you reveal, and what you keep to yourself, and when it comes to that kind of doublespeak... Bull, what am I trying to say?"

"You're shit at it," Bull grunts. 

"Now imagine that said tactfully, and with all the care and affection I can muster, but... well, yes."

Lavellan shakes his head and turns away, fighting a scowl. "Even if I were a master at the Game, I'm certain Solas would see right through it. He seems to appreciate honesty above all else. But with all Leliana's ears in these walls - hello, whoever is listening now, by the way - I doubt he would speak to me openly." He runs a hand through his thick dark hair, thinking. "If I could speak to him alone - outside Skyhold, perhaps-"

"Bull, our darling Inquisitor is trying to get himself killed again," Dorian says, sounding incredibly weary. 

"It's alright," Bull says, patting Dorian's head. "I'll have him trussed up and over my shoulder before he does anything stupid. It's my job."

"As your " _boss_ ," I can say with relative certainty that that is _not_  your job," Lavellan says sourly. 

"I'm sure on the contract somewhere there's a line about keeping the Inquisitor from running off in the night with apostate mages who may or may not be fucking around with some seriously dark magic. Dorian?"

"I agree," Dorian says. "And if there isn't, I'll write it in myself. Besides, you're very pretty when you're all "trussed up," as Bull so aptly put it."

Lavellan can feel himself flushing, and he knows he's lost the argument. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

Bull pats the bed, shuffling himself and Dorian over slightly to make room. Lavellan eyes him for a moment, then relents with a sigh, crossing the room and climbing back into bed. Bull switches from patting the bed to patting his lap, a mischievous glint in his eye. Lavellan rolls his eyes, but smirks a little despite himself, and flops over onto Bull's lap, pillowing his arms on Bull's thighs and stretching out to tangle his legs up lazily with Dorian's. In moments he can feel Dorian's long fingers working through his thick hair, and it's all he can do not to forget the conversation entirely and close his eyes, letting the warmth and affection distract him. As it is, he's dangerously close to purring. 

"You gotta learn to compartmentalize," Bull says softly, but there's a gravity to his words as well. " _Kadan_ , believe me, I wish you could stay like this - all trusting, and sweet, and as naive as if you just stumbled out of a forest for the first time-"

"I'm not naive," Lavellan mumbles, burying his face in Bull's thigh.

"You are," Dorian and Bull say in tandem. There's a pause, then Dorian says, "Look at us. You're a Dalish elf - already a disadvantage in many circles - and many consider you to be a symbol of Andraste. And yet despite all this, your choice of bed partners includes an ex-Ben Hassrath-"

"-And a Tevinter mageling," Bull says. Lavellan smirks a little, imagining Dorian's face at that. "Look, Dorian, don't act like I'm the most controversial member of this little heretical threesome we have here. Anyway, not many other people would have let either of us get this close to them, if they were in your position, never mind both."

"Maybe other people aren't as discerning or intelligent as I am," Lavellan says.

"You've been hanging around Dorian too much," Bull says. "But in seriousness... you can't trust people, the way you do. You just can't. You've already had a few close calls too many."

"We don't want to lose you," Dorian says quietly, his hands gentle in Lavellan's hair. 

"And Thedas _can't_  lose you," Bull adds, a large hand coming to rest on Lavellan's back. "You're kind of irreplaceable. Don't let it go to your head."

"I'll try," Lavellan grumbles. He rolls over, gazing up at Dorian and Bull and putting aside his frustrations and worries to offer them a smile. "So... to compartmentalize, then?"

"You're a crap liar, but you're a decent actor when you put your mind to it," Bull says. "Right now, you're playing the role of someone who doesn't think Solas is up to anything."

"And while I've been enjoying your visits to the library five times a day, I'm certain you can find more subtle ways to observe Solas's movements without bounding through his office every two hours," Dorian says. 

Bull groans. "Has he actually been doing that?"

"I was flattered until I figured out why."

"You're disrespecting your liege and saviour," Lavellan complains. "I do count as a liege now, do I not? The humans in all those old knight-hero stories always had a liege of some sort."

"Likely a backwoods Ferelden thing," Dorian says airily. "I wouldn't give it much thought."

"Still," Lavellan says, biting back a grin as Dorian and Bull trade another look. "As _the_  Inquisitor of _the_ Inquisition, I can't help but think that neither of you are quite as in awe of me as you should-" 

Lavellan is promptly silenced with a kiss, followed by many more, and he soon forgets the rest of his ranting. 

-

Fenris hasn't slept since his last stumble into the Fade.

He naps, occasionally. Never more than a few minutes at a time, and always in daylight, always within sight of Hawke. At night he lies awake and tries to keep his mind clear, his thoughts calm, focusing on his path forward. Towards the Free Marches, towards answers.

_Or away from them_. 

But he tries not to think about that.

It's a little frightening, how easy this is, how exhaustion doesn't hang on him the way it should. He remembers once, years and years ago, after having displeased Danarius in some fashion, being handed over to Hadriana for a week. She'd commanded him to stay awake, without rest, without even a moment to sit or lean against a wall for support, for as long as he was able. He last two and a half days before collapsing, and was awakened by the sharp sting of a whip carving into his flesh as punishment for disobeying. 

Two and a half days, then, and he'd collapsed from exhaustion. Two weeks, now, and while he can  _feel_  the ache and need for sleep, he can also put it aside. He can ignore it. His body no longer seems to command him the way it once did. 

It's liberating. Frightening. Very likely both. 

When Hawke realized Fenris wasn't sleeping, he'd offered to spend the night sleeping in shifts - they'd done so before in the past, when sleeping in open areas without cover and knowing danger was close at hand. Fenris declined the offer, much to Hawke's dismay. Fenris has tried, but truly, there is no way to make Hawke fully understand why he cannot risk sleep. 

It isn't, after all, a matter of knowing Hawke might be able to help him escape the Fade if he were to fall into it once again. It's knowing, bones-deep, that the Wolf he cannot control is still prowling in the back of his mind, howling through his thoughts, waiting. 

Whether in dreams, or physically, Fenris cannot risk the Fade. Not without giving himself over to the Wolf. 

They cross the sea in a decent cabin on a sturdy ship, and Hawke sleeps soundly at Fenris's side. Fenris counts grains of wood in the aging oak around them, his ear pressed to Hawke's chest. The steady thudding of Hawke's heart is almost enough to drown out the Wolf's cries.

Almost.

-

Mahanon leans back against the rough bark of the birch tree at his back, smiling. 

Likely the Keeper is looking for him, and likely he's soon to be scolded for dodging his duties back at camp. But for now, the glade before him is lit up with a golden sun, the air is warm and rich with the scent of the forest around him, and without the hustle of the clan drowning it out the rustle of the trees in the wind and the echoes of bird calls can be heard with utter clarity, his ears flicking this way and that to try to catch as many sounds as he can.

There are footsteps behind him, and Mahanon turns his head to see a very pale elf in plain clothing step into the glade, not too far away. Mahanon smiles.

" _Aneth ara, ma falon_ ," Mahanon says, with a polite nod. 

"Is it indeed?" the elf says, tilting his head. There's something very familiar about his veiled smile.

Mahanon blinks. "Have we met?"

The elf laughs lightly. "Sometimes I wish the Fade held such sway over me as it does others. I'm sorry to say this is but a dream, _Inquisitor._ "

In a word, Mahanon's world changes. He feels himself grow older, feels old scars and deep aches worm through his skin and muscles. A brief glance at his left hand shows that bright, glowing mark, the one that has caused so much pain and suffering to a great many people besides himself.

It has been a long time, quite a long time, since Mahanon was his Keeper's First, an elf boy prone to wandering off into the woods lost in his own daydreams. 

Now, no one calls him Mahanon. His name carries the integrity and legacy of his clan with him these days, wherever he goes. 

"Solas," Lavellan says, blinking as he clears the last dregs of dream-induced fog from his mind. "Am I dreaming still, or have you come to pay me another visit?"

"The latter," Solas says, taking a seat on a tree root close to Lavellan's own perch. "I thought we might speak in one of the few places where we might not be overheard. Well, at least, not by anything that would particularly care about what we have to say."

Lavellan tilts his head, and in an instant, he understands. It's only been a few days since Bull and Dorian warned him not to confront Solas directly. Warned him that he was not prepared for this conversation. 

_Well... shit._

"It seems as though you have questions you wish to ask me," Solas says mildly, and Lavellan fights to keep his expression neutral, to keep his nerves from causing him to tense. "I would encourage you to do so now, while we have the time, and while we are alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The greeting that Mahanon uses for Solas literally means "my safe place" apparently, hence Solas's comment. More stuff happens in the next chapter. Things are revealed. Mistakes are made.
> 
> Like, a lot of mistakes. Someone's gonna be a little too trusting and for once, it's not just gonna be Mahanon.
> 
> (Note the "just." Mahanon bb ilu and you're very smart in a lot of ways but you've got an enormous blind spot when it comes to people you like.) 
> 
> As always I live for comments and I absolutely love how people have been responding to this series. The job that I work right now leaves me with very little time with which to write but it's so incredibly worth it for you guys.


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